ScreamFree Articles

While celebrating the prettiest Christmas lights of all (relatives’ taillights as they travel back home), it’s now time to move on to what I believe is truly “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year”: New Year’s. We at ScreamFree are especially fond of January because it is the one time that our culture says it’s OK to focus on yourself. This one month it’s okay to reflect on your life and “resolve” to make the changes you’ve always craved.

Well, instead of delivering some redundant encouragement for you to boldly put forth your designs for a new you (you can find that on every magazine rack), I’m going to offer you a glimpse into the world of Hal. Forgive me for this act of self-indulgence, but if you dare, I offer you my own New Year’s Resolutions for 2006.

I, Hal Edward Runkel, resolve to:

• Never again combine champagne, karaoke, and Frank Sinatra. May God forgive me for three nights ago.

• Read, read, read. Whenever I’m not reading, then the only thoughts I hear myself saying are my own. That leaves little room in my head for disagreement, discussion, and growth. And that’s not good for anybody.

• Strive to make myself more interested than interesting. For too long I’ve concentrated on presenting myself as interesting, thinking that in order to be influential and effective, I had to be unique, entertaining, even charming. But you know what endears you to people, you know what makes you the type of person other people want to be around, listen to, even follow? Being interested in them.

• Watch my language about my children. Just the other day I had a conversation with one of my child’s teachers, who spoke glowingly about her “potential.” A long time ago, back in graduate school, I was told by more than one that I had the potential to be a great writer. That can be a comforting word, potential. It means that I can rest assured that I’ve got what it takes to turn it on someday and write words, articles, even books that can have an effect on the world. I can relax, because I’ve got a brilliant future, full of potential. Which means, of course, that I don’t have to do anything about it now—if my future’s secure, then I don’t have to act in the present. My “potential” will take care of itself.

  But that’s when the word can become a millstone around your neck. “Potential” always means “not yet.” It gives both a false sense of security, because we always worry about our future, but it also gives an indictment about the present—those with potential are those who have yet to realize it. They are “not yet,” and are thus, “less than what they could be.” They have to “apply themselves” and truly appreciate the gifts they’ve been given, and on and on. Just like everyone is special, everyone also has potential. No one needs to apply themselves more than anyone else. Each of my kids has potential, but they don’t need to hear that. They’ve got enough on their plates, they shouldn’t have to receive the comforting, yet condemning label of “potential,” which is usually about my desire to steer them into a particular talent or direction. It is not my job to prophesy about my kids’ future, nor consistently comment on their present. It is my job to be a calming authority, and a person of influence for my kids. A person that does not coerce or manufacture a future for them, but is a loving guide that is there alongside of them as they discover who they want to be in life.

• Write, write, write. Speaking of my potential, the only way I could break free from that label was to pause and discover what I really wanted. Did I want to become a great writer for the pure purpose of it, or was I just trying to fulfill my potential? And that’s the call for all of us. Most of us have spent most of our lives living out some external expectation for ourselves. And instead of confronting those expectations, we usually just shift the focus to our spouse and kids and continue the trend, placing expectations and prophesies upon them.

  Few of us pause and ask ourselves the dangerous, and yet promising question, “What do I really want?” Whenever I do that, I actually come back to writing. And you might come back to your “potential” as well. You might find out that the very thing you’re doing now is the exact thing you’re supposed to be doing. But genuinely choosing to do it, because you genuinely want to, sure makes it easier to go to work. My favorite saying of the Buddha is this: Our work is to discover our work. Mine, despite how this particular article may turn out, is to write.

• Continue making appointments with my personal trainer. And continue laughing whenever he says, “I need five more reps!” Yeah, right. Then you better do ‘em, buddy! He sounds as silly as I do whenever, in my lesser moments, I plead with my kids, “Daddy really needs you to get dressed so we’re not late to school.” Daddy needs this? Yeah, only because Daddy needed to get up 20 minutes earlier! What Daddy needs is to remember that what kids need most are parents who do not need them. Kids get a false sense of power whenever we need them to behave, cooperate, validate us as good parents, whatever. What I really need to do is put them in the best space to make good choices, and then let them know their place whenever they make bad ones. That means I need to stop hitting the snooze. And tell my trainer to stop making me laugh while I’m underneath heavy weights.

• Four words: thirty-three inch waist. (My wife, Jenny, just chimed this one in).

• Continue to kiss my son. As he gets older and more masculine, it would be very easy to drift into less affectionate forms of connection. Sure, I can kiss on my daughter with ease, but my son? He’s becoming a man! All the more reason to confidently show him (and myself) that we share a bond on this earth that cannot be broken by cultural stigmas or my own immature insecurities. He still wants to kiss at every goodbye—and so will I.

• Continue to skip with my daughter. My oldest just turned nine today, and she wanted to skip along the street with her daddy. I’m a sucker for traditions, and we already share a couple every birthday. I think I want to add the skipping.

• Continue to woo my wife. Remember during school when you were a little embarrassed about “liking” someone? My daughter turns beet red whenever someone accuses her of “liking” some particular boy. The more I work with couples, and the more I try to live in one, I find the same fear of embarrassment. Despite the years together, I still find that we are more comfortable when pursued than when pursuing. Being pursued means being wanted. It validates us, makes us feel special, gives us a sense of security.

  But pursuing is dangerous business, even if you’ve been married for years. Especially if you’ve been married for years. Pursuing means putting yourself out there, vulnerably making your desires public, exposing yourself to the most painful feeling of all—rejection. And it’s one thing for a relative stranger to reject you, but it’s especially hurtful if it’s the one who knows you best. If the one who knows me best rejects me, then maybe that means I’m really undesirable through and through. That cuts deep. So it’s better to play it safe. You know, shut down my desires, or try to get her to pursue me without me really opening up (you know, guilt trips, or trying to make her jealous, or simply stopping any pursuit so that maybe she’ll take a hint). Or maybe the best of all, just focusing more on the kids instead of what I really want out of my marriage.

  No. I resolve to woo my wife. I resolve to pursue her with abandon by making myself more desirable, by openly admitting my desire for her and refusing to couch it in the safest language. I resolve to open myself up to her rejection(s), welcoming her feedback as growth material for me to become the man I want to be.

  And I’ll even resist the urge to give her counterfeedback (even if I think she needs it).

Well, there you have it, my New Year’s Resolutions for 2006. Nothing earth-shattering, nothing really unique. Perhaps you can work on your relationships along with me through 2006 and make them even better. Perhaps all of us will rejoice next January with “It was a very good year…”, and I promise that this time, I’ll let Frank sing it.